


My Heart Will Go On

by lanyon



Category: Carry On - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-02-16 08:07:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13049961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lanyon/pseuds/lanyon
Summary: After everything, Penelope notices a pattern. She's not the only one.





	My Heart Will Go On

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Themistoklis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Themistoklis/gifts).



I don’t have medical training but **my heart will go on** is useful, at a pinch, when a Normal has a cardiac arrest right in front of you. I don’t think it was too obvious; it was just a ripple of a spell and I had everything under control. 

It’s interesting that it worked at all, though. 

I don’t mean because of me. I haven’t met a spell I cannot cast. I mean because, until last week, this part of Bradford was a dead spot. 

Dead spots are awful. It’s like having an amputated limb, but you can’t figure out which limb until you try to walk, or hold something, and then you realise it’s all of them. 

I don’t want to tell Simon, yet, that the dead spots are shrinking and I don’t think that it’s occurred to Baz to tell him at all. I know Agatha won’t tell Simon because I’m the only person she talks to, or texts. 

Once, she tried to pretend she didn’t recognise my number so I cast **new number who this?** so my number is always programmed into her phone. I don’t want to bother her but I want her to know that I’m always here for her, if she ever comes back. I think she’s happy in California though I texted her to warn her that Trixie and her girlfriend were doing a west coast road-trip and I haven’t heard from her since. Maybe I’ll cast **AMA** , just in case. 

I go back to London, to touch up the spell that keeps Simon’s tail and wings hidden. **These aren’t the droids you’re looking for** is only effective for short periods. **Now you see me** has been useful but I need to find something better. 

I know, now, to knock when I visit Simon and Baz. The last time I failed to knock, Baz had just cast **You don’t know you’re beautiful** and, well, I really did not need to know about the prehensile abilities of Simon’s tail which was, I admit, rather smaller than I’d remembered.

I didn’t say anything, of course. I gather it’s not the done thing. I do remember saying to Baz, “I thought you said you never used enhancing spells?”

“It’s a confidence thing,” he told me, later, and he volunteered no more information. “Make us a cup of tea, Bunce.”

Today, Simon is sitting on the couch, with a blanket draped over his back. 

“Our landlord was just in,” says Baz. “I dunno. To make sure we’re not trashing the place. Maybe our neighbours have finally told him about how amazingly good-looking and sexually active we are and he had to check for structural damage.”

“I hate you,” says Simon, faintly, and in the sort of tone that makes it clear that he adores Baz, as much as it still puzzles him. “It was just a routine inspection.”

“Did you pass?” I ask. 

“‘Course we did,” says Baz. “Flying colours.”

Baz can’t abide being anything less than perfect. I think he’s secretly still happy I never went back to Watford. Mum’s been after me for the last five years. She thinks I need a diploma to get anywhere in life, but I’m doing pretty well. Honestly, I think she wants me to have a diploma because, as Headmistress of Watford, she couldn’t very well say otherwise. 

Anyway, I have four perfectly successful siblings. I quite enjoy being the disappointment. I don’t think Premal minds, either. 

“Come on, Simon,” I say. “Got to spell your wings away for class.”

“I’m not going in today,” says Simon. The blanket twitches, with the movement of his wings. Something looks a little wrong but I can’t quite figure it out. “I think I’m coming down with something.”

Baz clear his throat, and then fake-coughs. “Yeah. No. Bunce, you probably shouldn’t be here. He might be contagious.”

“You’re here,” I say.

Baz smiles with all his teeth, as though the first thing is known about vampiric immune systems.

“Fine,” I say. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”

“Great,” says Baz and he actually stands up and opens the door for me, which is how I know something is terribly wrong.

I’m still thinking about it when I get back to my own place. I share a flat in Canary Wharf with two other mages and neither of them are half-pixie, for which I am profoundly grateful. I think Annabelle might be part fairy, but it’s probably a very small part. It’s been centuries since fairies were last seen in these parts. 

“Hey, a bird came for you,” says Sylvia. She nods at my bedroom door. 

On my bed, there’s a letter from my mother, asking me to visit her in Watford. I don’t ignore it but I don’t let it weigh on me. When I’m sitting on my bed, another bird arrives, and this time it’s a letter from Doctor Wellbelove. It’s short.

_There’s only one left._

My heart beats faster. If he’s right, and he pretty much always is (at least as often as my mother), it means that there’s only one dead spot left.

I call him. 

“Penelope,” he says, a little loudly and a little muffled. I think he likes Normal technology but he’s not very good at it. 

“Where is it?” I ask. “I mean, hello, hi, Dr Wellbelove.”

“Tintagel,” he says. “The Coven are sending representatives in the morning to confirm but I believe that we’re right. Your brother was working on this, you know.”

Of course he was.

“Of course he was. I mean.”

Dr Wellbelove laughs softly. “Penelope. Can you tell me— how is Simon?”

I grip my phone a little tighter. Of course Dr Wellbelove would be curious. He was probably the closest thing Simon had to a father, after the Mage, and we all know how that turned out. “He’s doing well, I think. Being a Normal suits him.”

“Simon Snow has never been a Normal,” says Dr Wellbelove and I let out a breath. I think it’s relief. I think I’m actually relieved to know that, maybe, someone still cares for Simon. Baz and I do, of course, fiercely, but Simon is the dust that the world of Mages has swept under the carpet. “Some of us wonder if the disappearance of the dead spots has affected him in any way?” 

He sounds more curious now. Scientific, which isn’t surprising. “No,” I say, firmly. “He’s just Simon.”

“Wonderful,” says Dr Wellbelove. I think he means it. “Well, Penelope. Lovely to hear your voice. I’ll let you know about Tintagel.”

After we’ve hung up, I look at my phone for a moment. Simon is a Normal. Simon is Normal. That doesn’t seem quite right, not when he’s got wings and a —

I’m out of the flat and hitting the down button on the elevator before Annabelle has time to say anything. I’m only slightly out of breath when I get to Simon’s flat. 

“Let me see your tail,” I say. 

I forgot to knock. Simon and Baz stare at me, like a matching pair of wide-eyed prairie dogs. Once they untangle their limbs, I can see. 

No tail. No wings. 

“Oh, _Simon_ ,” I say. “Why didn’t you tell me?” 

“I didn’t want to worry you,” says Simon. Baz has his arm around his shoulders in a strangely protective manner. 

“We’d have told you if his arms or legs started withering, Bunce, or if his head fell off.” 

“The dead spots have gone,” I say, in a rush. “Magic is back, everywhere.”

Simon stares at me and something _changes_ , like it’s more than the weight of dragon wings or a tail that has fallen from his shoulders. 

“Really?” he asks. And then he bursts into tears, and hides his face behind his hands.

Baz glares at me. “Get the kettle on, Bunce,” he says. “While Simon gets to grips with the fact that he hasn’t buggered up the world of mages.”

Simon’s not crying because he’s sad, _of course_. He’s crying because he’s left no mark on the world of mages, and he’s happy. He’s happy to be an irrelevance. 

_Well_ , I think, as I go into the kitchen and murmur a quick cleaning spell ( **Stronger than grease** ), _Baz and I will have to show him otherwise._

He’s Simon Snow, after all. He’s still the Chosen One.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Yuletide, Themistoklis. I hope you enjoy this and have a wonderful holiday season.  
> Thanks to M for errything.


End file.
